The Wishing Star (28 page)

The man spoke dryly, “We understand your church has given all the property into the hands of the leaders, but around here I don't think that'll work. It's each man for himself.”

Joe chewed his lip. “You are also using a revelation from the Lord to prove we have come with the intent of shedding blood. The Lord was only alerting us to the character of the inhabitants of this county. You're trying to prove we have no intention to come by the land honorably. Seems you're using this means to force us to buy out the Gentiles. I refuse to be threatened.”

The man pressed, “Dunklin's directive has also stated that militia from outside the counties is unlawful. You've no legal right to enter the county with weapons unless you have permission from him. It is obvious you have come to Missouri with only one intention—to show force.”

“That is not the truth.” Joseph paced back and forth before the man. “We've come in peace!”

Tom listened as the men continued to argue; finally Joseph drew himself erect. “Gilliam, I have a plan to offer you.” An expression of surprise and relief crossed the sheriff's face. While Joseph explained his plan, Tom watched Gilliam's jaw drop. Then he jumped to his feet as Joseph said, “We will purchase all the property of the settlers who've been the warmongers. Have twelve men set the price, to be paid in one year. Then from that price we shall deduct the amount of damages sustained by our people.”

“Only if you throw in the moon to boot!” Gilliam exploded as he stomped out of the camp.

Tom watched Joseph turn away. Without another word, he entered his tent. Late in the afternoon, Joseph reappeared and called his men together to hear the latest revelation from the Lord.

Sitting on the edge of the crowd, Tom studied the men's faces. Some of them were recovering from cholera, others had watched their friends die. All of them, from the beginning, had fretted over the whole sad situation. All were listening intently. For the first time in days, Tom watched relief and hope flicker on their weary faces.

Tom turned his attention to the words Joseph was reading. “Wait for the redemption of Zion. I will fight your battles for you. I will send the destroyer in my time to lay waste mine enemies . . .”

Tom's relief and satisfaction were total—almost, until he heard the final words. As he walked back to his tent, the man in front of him limped along slowly, quoting the words bitterly. “‘It is expedient that they should be brought thus far for a trial of their faith.'” He turned and saw Tom. “I can't see a blessing in the temple helping out those lads who died. That was a sore trial for the Lord to put on us.” He continued on his way, sadly shaking his head. At the sound of an angry voice rising beyond the circle of tents, Tom stopped and listened. With a sigh he turned back.

It was Wight. Standing in front of the Prophet's tent, he shouted. “If you choose to back out now, all right, but I'm going to fight! The Lord has promised to help, and I'll hold Him to it!”

As Tom reached the tent, Joe Smith stepped through the doorway, revelation in hand. Thrusting the papers at Wight, he spoke quietly, “Here, read it for yourself. I know you're disappointed, but thus saith the Lord. It may help you to know that in three years' time, we'll march against Jackson County, and there won't be a dog to open his mouth against us. The Lord revealed the date unto me. The day for the redemption of Zion has been set—September 11, 1836.”

That night Tom accompanied the Prophet across the river to visit the Mormons in Clay County. Joe comforted the little band of discouraged settlers with his promise to return to Ohio and raise money to buy all of Jackson County.

Finally, Joe ordered the leaders of Zion to return with him to Kirtland, Ohio, to receive their special endowments in the temple. Before they left Missouri, Joe instructed the people remaining behind to hold no public meetings and to stay away from the upcoming elections. “Don't give them opportunity to quarrel with you,” he concluded.

Zion's Camp tarried just long enough to hear that their settlement proposal had been rejected.

Phelps rode into camp with a copy of the
Liberty Enquirer
. There was a wry twist to Joseph's grin as he read the paper. Tossing it aside, he said, “The educated opinion of the editor is that the Mormons have scattered and that the war is over. Little do they know the Lord has promised to sweep away their pollution from the land.”

Chapter 20

In May of 1834, Jenny received a letter from Tom which disrupted the peaceful procession of ordinary days on the farm. Suddenly her mind was filled with the romantic picture of Joe, astride his steed, commanding Zion's Camp as they marched into Missouri to claim their sacred possession.

Together with Clara in the kitchen, Jenny was preparing to feed haying crews. Caught up in her thoughts of Joseph and Missouri, Jenny stood at the kitchen window. The sun-baked fields of ripening grain and the mounding hay stacks retreated into a haze of sun-shot gold. Opening her eyes wide, she sighed and blinked.

“Jenny!” Clara waved a butcher knife at her. “You're goin' to blind yourself starin' into the sun. Give that chicken a turn and go to shuckin' that corn. Those fellas are going to be in here for their dinner. Mrs. Barton won't be a bit happy if we make 'em wait for it.” She continued to study Jenny. “You haven't said much lately. What's the problem?”

Jenny walked to the stove and picked up the meat fork. “I've Tom on my mind a bit. He's gone out Missouri way with Joseph Smith's army to rescue their settlers there. I've been feeling lonesome, thinking how it would be if he were killed. Clara, you don't know what it's like, when you've got ten brothers and sisters. Tom's all I have.”

“If you were being sensible, you could have Mark.” Clara sighed, shook her head, and began to slice bread to stack on the platter. “Shall I do three loaves? There's all that corn and 'taters. I hope the rhubarb pie is sweet enough.” She threw a quick glance toward the door. “With a fella as promisin' as Mark, with all that money he's bound to inherit from his mother, and bein' an attorney, I'll never understand how you got your stars crossed and ended up wantin' that preacher Smith.”

Jenny was forking the sizzling chicken onto platters. As she lifted the first platter to carry out to the tables under the trees, she glared at Clara.

“All right,” Clara muttered, “so you don't like hearin' about it. I guess I'll be settin'
my
cap for him.”

She looked at Clara and then laughed. “I give you my permission. But you can't have your talisman back.”

Mrs. Barton came into the kitchen and threw a startled glance at Jenny. Then she asked, “Where's the tomatoes and cukes?”

“Settin' under a damp cloth on the table,” Clara said hastily, heading for the door with the bread. Jenny scooted for the backyard. “Are you fetchin' the milk?” Clara called.

Later, when Jenny was washing dishes, her thoughts returned to the subject that never released its grip on her restless heart. It was true that she had been thinking about that march to Missouri, feeling the sun smite her eyes just as it would those soldiers, but it hadn't been Tom who occupied her thoughts. As she moved the dishcloth slowly over the plates, she dreamed about the sun turning Joseph's hair as bright as his golden plates.

When Clara carried in the last dish, she whispered to Jenny, “In that letter, did Tom say anythin' about—about her?” Jenny shook her head without looking up. “Do you wanna try that other?”

Scratching at the crusty skillet, Jenny said slowly, “Clara, I can't even think that way.”

“You don't even understand
why
, do you?” Clara whispered. “Can't you see we have the
right
to order the events of the universe? Life and death's all part of it. Because you don't like to see someone die, you think death is bad, but that is because you're lookin' at it from down here. People only progress to a better life by passin' through death.”

Mrs. Barton spoke from the doorway. “Clara, it's mighty hard to convince people of that when they've just seen someone die. Mark's Uncle Thomas has just passed away today. I don't recommend your philosophy for him.”

Jenny turned quickly, “Oh, I'm sorry. Mark was very close to him. I suppose they will need help.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Barton said. “I was thinking of food, but with folks coming in from as far away as Albany, it will be good household help they'll need. Jenny, the menfolk won't be harvesting again until next week. Why don't you help me wrap up this ham and some preserves and we'll take them over. Take your bag. If need be, I'll leave you there for several days.”

Mrs. Barton's offer of Jenny was gladly accepted by the Webers, and she was immediately settled in the garret with Phoebe, Weber's hired girl.

In the kitchen with Phoebe, listening to the sound of carriages arriving and the tide of voices rising in the parlor, Jenny soon discovered why Mark's Aunt Mabel had welcomed her with gratitude. Phoebe was frozen into mindlessness by the crisis. Jenny sorted the jumbled pantry, planned meals, and shoved teacups into Phoebe's limp hands. Late that night, with the windows open to catch the slightest breeze, Jenny stood at the kitchen table rolling out sugar cookies and sand tarts. A lone horse moved past the house, and the back door creaked, but she didn't look up from her task until the hesitant steps stopped.

“Jenny, is that really you?”

“Mark!” Jenny bit her lip, recalling the last time she had seen him. What a silly quarrel it had been! His last visit had come close on the heels of Tom's letter, and her mind had been filled with the vision of Joseph.

Now looking at his wretched face, her heart squeezed tight with pity. He was still wearing his dark suit. She watched him dab at the perspiration on his forehead and tug impatiently at his tight collar.

“I suppose they've all retired for the night.”

She nodded. “I think so. Take off your coat and I'll bring you some cold buttermilk.” He was staring down at the table when she returned from the springhouse.

“Do you always bake at midnight! And what are you doing here?”

“It's cooler at midnight, and I've just come today. Mark, have you had supper?”

He shook his head. “I'd be happy with a cookie to go with the milk.”

He reached for a sand tart and Jenny said, “There's cold ham; wouldn't you like some?”

She was caught by the sadness in his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. “Mark, I'm sorry.”

Quickly he asked, “Then you'll forgive me?”

“What? Oh, that silly quarrel. I've forgotten why we even argued.”

“It wasn't the argument,” he said thoughtfully. “It was my pigheaded need to be right. Jenny, you've a fine mind, which shouldn't be put down. Be patient with me as I learn to deserve you.”

He bit into the cookie and turned away. Jenny stared at him while all he had just said rolled around through her thoughts. How could a man like Mark talk to Jenny, the hired hand, like this?

He turned abruptly. “Are your cookies burning?”

****

In the days that followed, Jenny saw Mark infrequently as he took charge of the Weber family. Up until the funeral the stream of carriages seemed unending, and Jenny was always ready with tall glasses of lemonade and cups of tea.

Phoebe continued to move only as pushed—all thought had slipped from her mind except for the task before her.

When the day of the funeral finally came, the sound of carriage wheels and horses suddenly ceased. Phoebe signaled the change by collapsing. Mark took her home and returned to beg Jenny to stay on a few days longer. Aunt Mabel came to the kitchen to add her plea; then both she and Mark settled down at the table as if it were the most pleasant spot on earth.

The kitchen table conferences grew into midnight trysts for the threesome, with sandwiches and cookies served by pale lamplight. Jenny felt herself prodded and probed by Mark and Mabel, but she also knew their friendly jabs were without rancor.

One night after Mark had left the room, Mabel turned back to Jenny and said, “You know he loves you, don't you?” Jenny felt her back stiffen, and Mabel continued, “I'm not trying to give you that speech about how you are as good as any of us; I believe you know that. But I sense you're not taking him seriously, and I can't understand that. You see, Mark means a great deal to me. You seem so sensitive to our every need and emotion, yet—” She leaned forward to study Jenny's face. “Why do I feel you're set apart and divided from us? You know I welcome you with open arms. If you're worried about his mother, you can rest assured my sister will love you just as I do.”

Jenny watched Mrs. Weber walk from the room. She was thinking about the talisman pinned inside her dress, and about the green book. Could those other thoughts make all this difference?

The following evening Jenny was a spectator as Mark and Mabel carried on a lively argument. She was thinking about Mark, and wondering for the first time how he really felt about her. There had been those times when she had felt as if unseen bonds were drawing them together in a way she neither understood nor really wanted.

She studied his face; he was the same Mark she remembered from the Bainbridge days; his youthful face was open, honest. His sandy hair and freckles, the square jaw and eyes—not quite green and not quite blue—seemed very ordinary. Yet—she frowned, wondering why there was that memory from the Bainbridge days. She recalled the day she had first seen Mark and that other young man. For a moment they had seemed wrapped in a splendor more brilliant than any dream she had known. Then unbidden, the vision of Joseph Smith appeared, and Jenny moved her shoulders uneasily.

Mark reached for Jenny's hand and lifted it. “I don't know anything about reading palms, but just guessing your past, I'd say, young lady, that one day you'll drop in your tracks if you don't start taking more rest.” He turned to his aunt. “If Jenny's to be returned day after tomorrow when Phoebe comes back, please, Aunt Mabel, may I take this fair lady to the city tomorrow?” Mabel nodded with a pleased smile.